


a new kind of stupid

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [39]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hamilton the cat as the new American mascot, Heavy Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, President Hamilton, Pride Parade, Tagged M because of discussed rape, Trans Thomas Jefferson, Twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:24:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9818216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: "I can't change the past," he said helplessly."I don't expect you to," she told him. "I wouldn't forgive you even if you had. But youdohave a chance to change the future."A conversation between Thomas and Sally, Hamilton the cat, a protest-turned-sleepover at the Senate, and Peggy and Philip.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Worldweaver3791](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worldweaver3791/gifts).



> Can you guys _tell_ I've been re-marathoning all of the big musicals (and also Trevor Noah and the Sims 4, and although I will swear until my dying day that Sims 3  > Sims 4, I must admit that I am kind of in love with the gender modifications available in Sims 4).

_Hamwatch_ @hamwatch  
It's that time of the year again. The NYC Pride is rolling around, and you know what that means…

 _Hamwatch_ @hamwatch  
It's time for our yearly Spot @AdotHam At The Pride Parade Because You Just KNOW He's Going To Ditch The Secret Service Again event

 _Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette_ @FrenchBaguette  
@hamwatch It's also time for our yearly I'm Not Babysitting POTUS This Year I'll Just Lock Myself In My Office For The Duration Of This Mess feat. @JemmyMorrow

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“Sally–" Thomas said weakly, then stopped. What did one say on such an occasion? _Sorry for everything?_ That didn't seem enough, not by a long stretch.

"Hello," she said evenly when he didn't continue.

"What– why–" Thomas couldn't seem to be able to formulate an entire sentence.

"You know," Sally began indifferently, "you never seemed to have problems with articulating your views before – or putting them into action," she said, her words cutting into Thomas like a knife.

"I never–" _Never what? Wanted to rape her? You know that's not true._ "I'm sorry for–" _Violating your body to the point of torture, for never giving you a choice_. "You knew who I was before you chose me as your lawyer," he eventually said, "and yet you _chose me_. After all I did before."

"Yes, I did," she said quietly.

 _"Why?_ "

"Because you seemed to have changed," she said frankly, shrugging. "I suppose I wanted to see what had become of the great Thomas Jefferson," her voice was infused with enough venom to take down an elephant.

He hung down his head. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I know it doesn't change anything, but I'm _sorry_."

" _Damn right_ it doesn't," she hissed. "A sorry doesn't cut it, Thomas Jefferson. A sorry isn't worth anything. It doesn't change anything, and it certainly doesn't make me want to _forgive you_. You were a monster of the worst kind – you _raped_ me, you _used_ me, you _assaulted_ me and _violated_ me in every way possible – and then you _enslaved_ and _hid away_ my – no, _our_ – children, unable to live with the shame of your own actions," she continued passionately. Thomas flinched as she slashed the air at every word she emphasized.

"I can't change the past," he said helplessly.

"I don't expect you to," she told him. "I wouldn't forgive you even if you had. But you _do_ have a chance to change the future. Mind, this wouldn't be a redemption in my eyes," she warned him. "I'll still probably despise you for as long as I live, but it will go a little way to helping me."

"I know what you've lived through," he suddenly blurted out, unable to stop himself. He regretted the words as soon as they exited his mouth, but there was no undoing them. No unsaying.

Sally tilted her head. "What do you mean?" she inquired.

Thomas swallowed, ducking his head. He tried to avoid the subject as much as possible. Some days, even the thought of it made Thomas want nothing more than to curl in on himself and stay that way until the world ended. He still felt overwhelming shame for it – he knew it wasn't his fault, _dammit_ , but he couldn't control what he felt – but Sally, if anyone, deserved to know. She probably used to feel the same when he forced himself on _her_. "I wasn't born a man," he started. "Not in this lifetime."

"Go on," Sally prompted when Thomas hesitated for a moment too long.

He closed his eyes. He didn't want to see Sally's gaze when he told her his story. Would there be pity? Disgust? Satisfaction at him finally receiving his due, like some sort of karma? He honestly didn't know which would make him feel the worst. "I had a boyfriend. He wouldn't take no for an answer," he phrased it as delicately as he possibly could. He still felt vulnerable. This was something he had never voiced out loud, and tried to avoid even thinking about. It hurt too much.

He heard Sally freeze, her movement becoming nonexistent. She let out a long breath. "You mean he _raped_ you," she said it plainly. Did he detect a note of smugness in her voice, or was it just his imagination _wanting_ there to be smugness so that he could focus his anger, though displaced, on her?

No, he decided, she wasn't that petty.

"So… I just want to say that I understand now – the sheer terror, the vulnerability, the lack of control. _I understand,_ " he said plaintively.

"This wasn't how I envisioned this conversation would go," Sally confessed.

Thomas bit his lip. “How _did_ you imagine that this conversation would go?” he asked, dreading the answer but needing to hear it anyway. He opened his eyes, locking eyes with her green ones.

She stared at him hard. Yes, there was a hint of sympathy in her gaze, but her eyes made it very clear that whatever good feelings she may have towards him, they were overshadowed by the resentment and the dislike and the _fear_ she felt towards him, and why wouldn't they? He had never done anything to show that he was anything but a monster, an abuser, a ruthless slaver. “I imagined that you wouldn't be contrite,” she spoke at length. “I imagined that you'd be the same man you've been in your past life – which is ignorant of me, but I–“

“I don't blame you,” Thomas quickly assured her, then winced as she shot him a withering glare when he cut her off. Dammit, he shouldn't be doing this. He knew what it felt like – could still remember what it felt like to be the one whose opinions were deemed inferior and could be ignored simply because of his gender.

“Excuse _you_ , I wasn't done talking,” she said firmly, scolding. “I didn't think that you would be humble, or regretful, or have even realized that what you have done is wrong and disgusting on all sorts of levels. I certainly didn't imagine that you would have been subjected to the same kind of abuse you once heaped, that you would've understood how it felt when you violated me.

“Do note, Thomas Jenkins, that doesn't mean I've forgiven you. It simply means– I don't know what it means,” she shook her head to organize her thoughts, honesty in her voice. Honesty was all Thomas could ask of her. It was more than he deserved, at any rate. “It means,” she finally replied, “that I am willing to give you a chance – not exactly for forgiveness, but to make up for what you've done. Let your present heals your past, so to speak.”

“You wouldn't forgive me,” Thomas said quietly. He had been expecting it, had genuinely thought that he deserved, but it still felt like a blow to his entire being. This was irreversible, a mistake he could never hope to correct.

She jerked her head. “No, at least not right now. Possibly not ever,” she replied truthfully. “It's not a conscious decision.”

Thomas let out a ragged breath. “I know. Believe me, _I know_ ,” his voice was raw, too raw, too _revealing_.

She smiled, reaching for his hand, and squeezed it lightly before letting go. Thomas reflected that she was far braver than he ever was – he flinched every time his abuser had touched him, whereas Sally found the courage to actively reach out and touch him, actually _touch him_ , even though he remembered her flinching when he touched her, before she introduced herself properly – a reaction he now knew wasn't caused by her husband but by Thomas himself (and wasn't that another twist of the knife already planted in his gut). “That's the only reason I am even giving you this chance,” she said sharply. “Because you showed that you're not the same ruthless cishet white supremacist sexist asshat you were before. Obviously, some of that I could have deduced as soon as I saw your picture, but I wouldn't have put it beyond Thomas Jefferson to still champion white supremacy even as an African-American.”

Thomas managed a smile. It was weak, yes, but it was _genuine_ , and that was all that counted. “I'm happy I was able to live up to your incredibly low expectations.”

A light cough alerted them to the presence of a third person. “Hello, redheaded physical representation of fierceness,” said John, leaning against the kitchen doorway, expression curious if a little wary. “I heard loud voices, and decided to check up on you. Is everything okay?” he squinted at Thomas and Sally.

Thomas looked back at Sally. What was the appropriate response? _Was_ everything okay? Thomas didn't feel like it was, but it was still going altogether better than he had ever imagined when he played a hypothetical meeting between himself and Sally in his mind.

Sally saw his hesitant look. She rolled her eyes. “Depends on how you define 'okay', Mr…?” she trailed off suggestively.

“John Lawrence,” John said. “Thomas' partner.”

Sally strode forward to offer her hand to John. “Sarah Harrison. Thomas',” she paused, “acquaintance from the past, and current client,” To her credit, she didn't comment on how Thomas' sexuality and open-mindedness was another change from before, no additional 'this is certainly a change'. Thomas was grateful; he was taking enough shit from the public as it was.

John shook her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Harrison. Although, acquaintances?” he frowned. “Thomas doesn't _do_ acquaintances. He either loves or hates – rather like Alexander in that regard,” he said fondly.

Thomas rolled his eyes, focusing on John's presence rather than Sally's because it was easier for him to wade through the conversation. “Do me the favour of never again comparing me with a man who thinks that ten paragraphs is a summary. Besides, I express _plenty_ of indifference.”

“Except you literally don't,” John gently but firmly refuted him. “Ever. I've known you half of my life, and you've never once showed indifference.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Sally give John an appraising look, probably wondering how much John knew about Thomas, how he could stomach living with him. That was a question Thomas had been asking himself every day since his Revelation.

“So,” John said, turning to Sally, “do you want to stay for lunch? I've taken the liberty of making salmon and pasta.”

Thomas nodded with understanding. “Stress-cooking again?” Cooking was John's main way of dealing with chaotic thoughts in his head – he described it as being able to ground himself in one single task, even when the world around him was a raging storm, tearing at him from all directions.

“Yeah,” John admitted, “lack of inspiration plus a rapidly approaching due date for one of my paintings doesn't exactly help with my stress levels.”

Mindful of Sally's scrutinizing eyes, Thomas leaned in to peck John on his forehead, taking advantage of his slight height advantage – the one physical feature he had in common with his– with Thomas Jefferson. “You'll be fine,” he promised.

John smiled. “I know. Now,” he took a step back, “food, anyone?”

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“So what do you do?” John asked Sally once they were seated at the kitchen table.

Sally loaded a bit of John's pasta onto her plate. “I'm a journalist for the New York Post,” she said easily.

At this, Thomas scoffed in derision. John glowered, elbowing him. “Behave,” he admonished. “Your little grudge against the Post is getting, quite frankly, ridiculous,” he then turned back to Sally. “You already know Thomas is a lawyer, and I'm an artist.”

Sally raised an eyebrow. “An artist and a lawyer? That's a rare pairing. This pasta's really good, by the way,” she complimented John.

“Thanks,” John smiled. “Anyway, we met in college. I was an art student, he was pre-law. For some dumb reason, our majors had English Lit in common, and our professor set us to discussing Wollstonecraft – amazing author, by the way, although Thomas didn't seem to agree, claiming that, what was it? Oh, right,” John grinned, “that 'Wollstonecraft, while an adequate author, was merely given so much attention because of the fact that her gender was woefully underrepresented in the literature world during her lifetime', which is just not true because she was much more than just a female author.”

While John went on, describing how John and Thomas ended up in a screaming match about the works of a deceased author, Thomas observed Sally's face. At the mention of Thomas' opinion of Wollstonecraft, she shot him a sharp glance, as if reprimanding him for being a hypocrite.

“He then cut me off mid-argument with a kiss – and it was a _damn good_ argument, too, and I still suspect that half the reason he did that was because he knew that he couldn't hope to refute it,” John finished smugly.

Thomas snorted. “Dream on, Lawrence.”

After dinner, Thomas did the dishes – as per their I Cook You Clean agreement – under Sally's watchful eyes, while John retreated to his art studio after reminding them to call him if they needed him.

“This is weird,” Sally finally spoke.

“What is?” Thomas frowned, focusing on scrubbing a particular fork. For some reason, even though they had more than enough money to afford it, John continued to refuse to purchase a dishwasher, so Thomas was stuck doing dishes by hand.

“Seeing you do actual manual labour,” she indicated the sink.

“Yeah, well,” Thomas gave the fork a final scrub, then dropped it off with the clean utensils, “as you have pointed out, a lot has changed since Monticello.”

“For example, Alexander Hamilton is president,” Sally said lightly.

“Don't remind me,” Thomas groaned. “That dickwad isn't fit to be president of anything, let alone an entire country. He would ruin America if he got the chance.”

“He got that chance two years ago,” Sally pointed out, “and he hasn't yet. In fact,” she went on, “he's one of the presidents with the highest approval ratings in modern history, despite him being as controversial as he is. He is doing some good things for this country. At least consider this: without President Hampton, you wouldn't be able to marry John.”

“We're not married,” Thomas rolled his eyes.

“No,” Sally conceded, “but you could be, if you chose to. In every state. That's something you owe him.”

“Marrying the person you love shouldn't need to be a privilege you need to _earn_ ,” Thomas grumbled.

Sally smirked. “Again, a very different tone from two-hundred years ago.”

Thomas didn't know how to reply to that.

Once he finished doing the dishes, he left them out to dry and guided Sally to the library, where they settled on the two couches.

“Let's get started, shall we?” Thomas prompted, retrieving his laptop from the bag he had grabbed on his way.

“Okay,” Sally agreed easily, “but let me just warn you now: what my husband did was horrible,” she informed him darkly. “Straight-up horrible.”

“I experienced at least some of that myself, and did plenty worse,” Thomas replied, trying to ignore the tight knot once again slowly forming in his stomach.

Sally grimaced. “That's what concerns me.”

“I'll be fine,” Thomas waved off her concerns. He wasn't sure whether he was trying to reassure Sally or himself.

“You don't _look_ fine,” Sally retorted, still too perceptive for her own good. “Your hands are shaking, and you clench your jaw too hard for it to be healthy. Do you want me to go get John?” she mad as if to rise.

“Don't,” Thomas said, stopping her in her tracks. “John doesn't know,” he admitted quietly.

Sally blinked. “What doesn't he know? That you raped me,” Thomas winced at her bluntness, but she went on, “or that you're trans, or that you're a rape victim yourself?”

“The last two,” Thomas specified. “The first, I suspect that he found through a five-minute Google search – it's pretty much common knowledge at this point – although we've never talked about it openly.”

“I see two immediate problems with that,” Sally said, holding up two fingers. “One, how can you not have confided in your very supportive boyfriend–“

“Partner,” Thomas corrected her automatically.

“–partner,” Sally adjusted easily, “about the issues that are you are clearly struggling with?”

“We've talked about… other things,” Thomas responded vaguely.

“As in, slavery in general?”

“Slavery in general,” Thomas confirmed. “As well as a lot of self-hate.”

“I see,” Sally said after a moment of consideration. Her voice was neutral – no condemnation, but also no sympathy. “As an African-American, it's probably hard for you to have that specific set of memories.”

“Karma,” Thomas said miserably.

“Which brings me to my second point,” Sally's tone rose in irritation. “Do you know how annoying it is to be remembered only as the woman Thomas Jefferson raped and abused?”

“I cannot even begin imagine,” Thomas admitted.

Sally tilted her head. “Just as I cannot imagine what that kind of self-loathing, brought on by two such contradictory belief systems warring with each other, must feel like.”

“Do you know what makes this even worse?” Thomas went on. “Now that I think about it, now that I went through this and experienced the fear and the pain and the helplessness of being in that position, I remembered that I never asked my wife for permission, either,” he looked away from Sally's carefully neutral eyes, taking a calming but ultimately ineffective calming breath before continuing. “And now I can't even apologize, or earn her forgiveness, and even if I could, she shouldn't forgive me but probably would because she was the single most amazing woman I've ever met, and I can't take travel back in time and tell my past self not to do it, not to take her for granted or treat her as my personal toy, and again, even if I could, my past self would probably just think, 'oh, here's another slave', and enslave me, and oh my God, I think I'm going to throw up,” he closed his eyes, trying to repress the images his overactive brain insisted on creating because apparently just thinking about it out loud wasn't enough, he had to visualize it–

He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to will his brain into shutting down, grateful that he was sitting down because if he hadn't been, he would have collapsed on the spot.

Time passed. Thomas didn't know how much, but the next thing he knew, there was a familiar hand on his shoulder, pressing him lightly back into the couch back rest, providing him with an anchor. He clutched onto it desperately, unwilling to let go now that he'd found it.

“There,” said a voice from somewhere above him. “There you go. Breathe in, Thomas. Hold it in. Now breathe out. Slowly. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.”

When Thomas finally opened his eyes, he found John sitting next to him on the couch, staring at him with concern, while Sally stood a little ways off, looking uncomfortable but also determined to help. “Better?” John asked. Thomas nodded. “What caused it?”

Thomas shot another hesitant look at Sally. She stared back. “You're going to need to talk to someone eventually,” she stated, “and who better than the one person who is guaranteed to support you?”

“I'm not– it's not as bad–“

“Let's not argue about that,” Sally cut him off, deciding to take the high ground. “You need to talk to John before we can continue.”

“Are you sure you don't want to switch lawyers?” Thomas wanted to ascertain. “As you can probably see, I'm not going to be very effective right now.”

“I know. But this is just as important for me as it is for you. Not everything is about you, Thomas Jenkins. You can give me a call once you've talked.”

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 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
Kudos to @Trevornoah for calling out @SenGeorgeClark on his racist bullshit.

 _Trevor Noah_ @Trevornoah  
@AdotHam With all due respect, sir, while I respect you immensely there are a few things I'd like to call YOU out on, while we are on the subject.

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@Trevornoah I will gladly answer any and all questions you have to the best of my knowledge. (1/2)

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@Trevornoah This is why we have the independent media: to keep the individuals in power accountable. (2/2)

 _Trevor Noah_ @Trevornoah  
@AdotHam Does 11th Avenue in NYC 5:00 pm Wednesday work for you?

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@Trevornoah See you there.

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“Alex,” Lafayette muttered slowly, “your phone's ringing.”

“Hmm?” Alexander looked up from where he was lying on Lafayette's lap, laptop on his chest, typing away at a speed that should be impossible given his position. “Oh, yes. That's just Aaron. Ignore it.”

“It keeps singing about ambivalence and a fence,” Lafayette frowned.

Alexander dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, that's just his ring tone. I felt that it was… fitting,” he grinned, “seeing as how Aaron, even now, takes a full fifteen minutes to decide what coffee he's going to order at Starbucks.”

“Aren't you going to answer it?” Lafayette prodded him.

“Nah,” Alexander shrugged, his mind already turned back to whatever text he was writing.

Lafayette fought the urge to groan. “What if it's urgent?”

“Then he would have called me from his work phone,” Alexander pointed out. “Different ring tones. This is his _personal_ phone, used for when he wants to complain about Angelica. God forbid Aaron Burr ever mixes these two up,” he snorted.

"Tim Minchin though?" Lafayette was still skeptical. “Really?”

Alexander grinned. "You have to admit that the song fits him," he said smugly.

Lafayette didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed Alexander's phone, squinted at it, then passed it on to Alexander. "Make it shut up," he ordered.

Alexander snickered as he did just that. "What, the great and amazing Marquis de Lafayette doesn't know how to silence a phone?" he teased.

"Not if it's a fucking Android," Lafayette said passive-aggressively.

"Unlike some people," Alexander said haughtily, "I do not fall prey to every whim of the masses. The iPhone is clearly inferior to the Android brand: it has closed software, does not allow its users to change the functions, and does not allow custom content such as music and apps. And even if it did, most of the price is not for the quality of the software, which is clearly lacking, but for the brand itself–"

"Yes, I know. You hate Apple with a loathing so deep that you put Elphaba and Galinda from _Wicked_ to shame," Lafayette interrupted him.

“You're quoting Schmidt. Again.”

Lafayette groaned again. “Don't talk about Schmidt, not while we're having a Moment.”

Alexander faked surprise. “Were we having a Moment? I haven't noticed. All I heard was you insulting my choice of phone – which, by the way–“

“ _Aaaand_ it's gone,” Lafayette declared dramatically. “Why am I dating you again?”

Alexander smiled charmingly. “Because you love me.”

“I do, dork. God help me, but I do,” Lafayette kissed him. As far as effective ways of silencing Alexander went, this one was right on top of that list (surpassing even murder, since, as experience had unfortunately proved, Alexander didn't exactly shut up after having been shot).

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 _From: mom_  
Alexander, can we leave Hamilton with you this month?  
We're going on vacation, and our neighbours have gotten creepy ever since they found out George used to be George Washington.

 _To: mom_  
Sure  
Hamilton doesn't eat parrots though, does he  
Because I happen to like Adams

 _From: mom_  
Why is your parrot named Adams?  
Wait, is it the same one that Madison tweeted about?

 _To: mom_  
Yeah  
C'mon you have to admit  
The mental image of  Adams screaming 'jeffersonofabitch' is funny

 _From: mom_  
And you are responsible for the security of this country

 _To: mom_  
As opposed to your husband who used to play with knives and forks as though they were drumsticks at dinner  
It was hilarious  
Jefferson used to get so pissed  
His face would turn this lovely shade of a British phone booth

 _From: mom_  
I won't deign that with a comment  
Bringing Hamilton tomorrow

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 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
Catsitting Hamilton the cat for @vineandfigtree and @overlady  
_[Picture attached]  
8 734 458 reblogs_

 _Peggy Scott_ @margarita32  
@AdotHam Too adorable for words #Hamilcat #HamilcatIsTheNewEagle  
_1 262 603 reblogs_

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 _Trending right now:_  
#kittens  
#blacklivesmatter  
#hamilcat  
#snowmageddon  
#pussygate  
#johnlock  
#presidenthamilton  
#why2k17isbetterthan2k16  
#destiel  
#jeffersonofabitch

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 _George Clark_ @SenGeorgeClark  
There's a rumour that @JemmyMorrow is currently running the White House but I'm not sure that I believe that because (1/2)

 _George Clark_ @SenGeorgeClark  
there's no proof that ANYBODY is running the White House right now. (2/2)

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“You're such a cliché, it's not even funny at this point,” Philip grouched, staring at Peggy in what could only be described as resigned disappointment as she reached for another donut.

Peggy shook her head. “Not technically,” she denied, pointing a finger at him. “The donut thing is only clichéd when applied to cops. We're feds.”

Philip groaned. “Peggy, federal law enforcement is still _law enforcement_. Ask anybody – hell, ask _Fornell_.”

Peggy snorted. “I'm not that stupid. I don't want to _die_ ,” she declared.

“Don't you have some sort of paperwork that needs to be done?” Philip asked pointedly, oddly weirded out by not being weirded out by the fact that he was the responsible adult in his and Peggy's relationship – if this were anyone else, Philip would have easily been the childish one, but Peggy seemed to bring out his mother hen instincts unlike anyone in either of his lives.

“Not really,” Peggy wrinkled her nose. “I mean, there _was_ , but then all these interns appeared, all so eager to help me with it, and really, it would have been rude of me to refuse their help,” she grinned, and how was she even real.

“How you managed to become a distinguished FBI agent is beyond my comprehension,” Philip admitted.

“It's because I'm cute but also creepy as hell,” Peggy informed him with her usual cheerfulness.

“You blackmailed your recruiter into accepting you, didn't you?”

Peggy scrunched up her nose. “'Blackmail' is such a terrible word,” she said. “I prefer the term 'mutual benefits'. Also, are we still up for dinner at yours? Herc promised that he would bring his special apple pie.”

“Yeah. Theo said that she couldn't promise that she'd be there, but that she'd try hard to avoid getting stuck at work.”

“What does she even _do_?” Peggy wondered. “I never really got an answer.”

Philip shrugged. “Neither did I, to be honest. She simply said 'government work'.”

“Which can mean anything from filing paperwork at the local legislature to 'I merely _occupy_ a _minor_ position in the government' by Mycroft Holmes.”

Philip scoffed. “Somehow, I can't quite imagine Theo as Mycroft.”

“Maybe that's the point. That _would_ be the perfect cover,” Peggy pointed out, her mouth full of donut, frosting falling out onto the floor.

He winced. “Don't talk while you eat, Pegs, it's disgusting. Didn't your parents teach you that?”

“Not really. They were too busy preventing Herc from doing crazy shit, and then dealing with the fallout when they couldn't,” Peggy grinned.

“That explains a lot about you both, actually,” Philip deadpanned. “Anyway,” he switched the topic back to the matter at hand, “yes, dinner's still at seven. Try not to be late, because fashionably late only works when there are other guests _beside_ yourself.”

“In that case, I'm revolutionizing that term. It should apply at all times,” Peggy said stubbornly.

“Peggy,” Philip sighed, feeling a headache coming on by the name of Peggy Scott, “I love you dearly, and you're basically my aunt–“

“I literally _was_ your aunt,” Peggy interrupted.

Philip rolled his eyes again. “Yes, I get it: you're sassy. You were my aunt, but that doesn't mean that I won't shoot you in the mouth if you don't shut up because I have a splitting headache that won't go away _and you're not helping_.”

Peggy snickered. “We both know you have a record of _not_ shooting people. You didn't even shoot the guy who shot your dad.”

“ _Rude_ ,” Philip retorted. “And please don't bring up the duel again. It's mortifying enough as it is.”

She shrugged. “Look at it this way: you got your revenge in the end.”

“I'm not entirely certain whether arresting George Elliott counts as _revenge_ ,” Philip replied. “I'd simply call it justice for shooting the President of the United States.”

“Well,” she smiled a little viciously, “shooting Mr Reyes was immensely satisfying, especially after the kind of shit he pulled on my little sis in the past.”

Philip held up a finger. “One, my dad was as much an accomplice in that messy affair as that scumbag, and though I love him dearly, I can readily acknowledge that. And two,” he lifted his middle finger to join the index finger, “she was your _older_ sister.”

Peggy grinned unrepentantly. “It felt like she was my younger sister. She was such a cinnamon roll. I was the family troll. Metaphorically, of course,” she added, as though Philip hadn't been able to figure that one out for himself. “ _Aaaaaand_ judging by the fact that your expression practically screams 'murder', I'll shut up now, won't I?” she finished sheepishly.

“Yes, you will,” Philip said, mentally calculating the odds of Peggy Scott being secretly related to his father, because there was _no way_ anybody not of the Hamilton brood could talk that much.

He spotted his boss giving him and Peggy a wave, and grabbed Peggy's elbow, ignoring her cries of outrage as the donuts disappeared from within her reach. “Come on, Peggy. We've got some actual work to do. The donuts can wait.”

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_Excerpts from BuzzFeed Newsfeed:_

This Hamfayette Love Letter Will Make Your Day

Take Five Minutes To Read This Letter From Thomas Jefferson to James Madison

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 _New York Post_ @nypost  
Democrats led by Treas. Sec. Drawwood  & Sen. Kaine protesting Republican inaction by staging a sit-in at the Senate nyp.st/1Ic4lc6

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@InARichMansWorld @timkaine Am I invited? #SenateSleepover

 _Allison Drawwood_ @InARichMansWorld  
@AdotHam It's a slumber party. We've got pizza, bring snacks. Don't bring Morrow or Republican bullshit. #SenateSleepover

 _Tim Kaine_ @timkaine  
@AdotHam Sanders says bring Krispy Kreme doughnuts. #SenateSleepover

 _Tim Kaine_ @timkaine  
@AdotHam Also, Obama wants Starbucks, and Gillibrand's whining about French fries. Bring both.

 _James Morrow_ @JemmyMorrow  
@AdotHam Do NOT bring snacks.

 _Allison Drawwood_ @InARichMansWorld  
@JemmyMorrow School's not in session. We are free to eat our candy in peace until the Republicans get their heads out of their asses.

 _Allison Drawwood_ @InARichMansWorld  
@AdotHam Murphy wants popcorn because we're about to watch Brokeback, also known as Republican Repellent.

 _Elizabeth Warren_ @elizabethforma  
@AdotHam Is it too late to ask for nachos?

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~(I feel like the sexist, homophobic, transphobic white supremacist people should experience a Freaky Friday with one of the very people they discriminate against. Like, not even for a long time – a week or two. Walk in their shoes, so to speak, because it's much easier to hate someone you don't empathize with and yes, this comment may have gotten slightly political ooops)~~  
> 
>  ~~((You can probably see I've been watching too much news right now and Am Pissed Off because Republicans))~~  
> 
> Thoughts?


End file.
